


you know his blood

by scorpiod



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Bloodplay, Blowjobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Facial Shaving, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: Sometimes, Goodnight can't sleep. Billy tries to help.





	you know his blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [20thcenturyvole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/20thcenturyvole/gifts).



> 1\. Much thanks to my lovely beta <3
> 
> 2\. Title taken from Vienna Ditto's _I Know His Blood_.
> 
> 3\. I hope you enjoy this fic! I had a blast writing it! Merry yuletide!

Goodnight sleeps in fits some nights. 

“Stop,” Billy whispers, running his fingers across Goody’s brow, trying to soothe the trembling, twisting man beside him. 

He has to be careful with him, gentle--or Goody’s liable to wake up with his arms swinging, looking for the gun he can’t fire, or throwing a punch that’ll connect just hard enough to leave Billy’s ears ringing. It’s happened once or twice before, enough for Billy to learn his lesson about sneaking up on former soldiers, the bruise from the last time still fading. 

(Goody is more honest asleep than he is awake, his face and body telling a story he himself won’t, with shouted words and sharp gasping sobs--it feels wrong, for Billy to bear witness, like stepping over a line in the sand, like a strong gust of wind could wear it away)

“You’re alright, Goody,” he says, keeping his voice low as he hopes to hell or a god he doesn’t believe in that Goody hears him, somehow--that he takes to heart in his sleep what he can’t while he’s awake. 

Goody doesn’t rouse this time; instead, he settles, his body smoothing out into stillness as Billy’s voice brings him back from the edge. A whimper or two will break the silence, like Goody’s fighting some demon in his dreams, like the demon is winning--Billy wishes he could help with that, but Billy can’t fight dreams, no matter how hard he tries 

_Go back to sleep_ , Billy tells himself, but he’s drawn here, keeping vigil, watching over Goodnight’s slack face. He reaches out again, stroking the rough stubble along the edge of his jaw, the arch of his cheeks, his fingers lingering long enough that Goody stirs, murmurs in his sleep, but doesn’t awaken. 

Not this time.

***

The sky wasn’t quite bright yet, still hazy, clinging to deep shadows, heavy with shades of blue and purple when they leave the inn, walking to where their horses are tied. 

“You alright?” Billy asks, turning to cut down Goody’s strides--morning light softens Goody’s eyes, deepening the hollows of Goody’s cheeks as the sun starts its ascension in the sky. Billy reaches out to him, uncertainty slowing his hand, fingers tentative in the air, not sure if Billy is allowed this, to touch Goody here in this morning twilight rather than under the evening darkness.

His hand lands on Goody’s shoulder with an inhale of air, his fingers giving Goody a gentle squeeze. Goody doesn’t shrug him off.

During the light of day, Goody is all smiles--sometimes sharp, sometimes genuine--his smooth story spinning, sharp eyed wolf. With his smile, it’s hard to remember who he is, what he is--what he’s done. Goody had a way of disarming people, including Billy. 

“I’m perfectly well this morning, Billy,” Good says, as he returns the shoulder squeeze, his hand warm through Billy’s shirt. “Let’s go make us some money.”

Billy returns his smile, but his gut feels leaden, churning over.

 

***

 

After their latest con, they find a creek by the road to bathe in, the two of them with their pockets full, wandering from civilization into the wilderness. Together they strip down, not bothering to turn their backs to each other, grown comfortable in each other’s presence, nude or not. 

Billy had never been shy about nudity and Goody claimed he was too old to worry about such matters-- _too fucking old to give a shit_ , Billy, he had told him.

Billy tries to keep his eyes low, tries not to be drawn in by the shape of Goodnight’s body, but stares for a bit too long while watching Goodnight strip his clothes down and step into the water. Goody is soft in places, but still lean and strong, covered in sinew and muscle, pale skin marred with scars, thick white ropes winding around his body, outlined by the hair carpeting his upper body and stomach.

Goodnight turns, arms wrapping around himself, mouth open as if to speak, but he stops when he catches Billy’s eyes, lips closing. 

Billy tears his eyes away, feeling like a child caught misbehaving, his skin turning warm, flushing around his face and neck. Billy pulls at the rest of his clothes in defiance, for the challenge, meeting Goodnight’s gaze as he damn near rips his clothes off himself in his haste, vest and waistcoat falling away, until he was nude and exposed to the elements.

Goodnight doesn’t take his eyes off him as Billy strides into the water, feels the rake of Goodnight’s gaze, burning into his naked skin until Billy plunges himself under the surface of the creek. 

 

***

It’s been several months since Goodnight Robicheaux fell into his life, and Billy is starting to feel their rhythm, the familiar ease of traveling side-by-side, of the fights and Goody’s drinking--whether it’s staying at inns or finding camp, convincing foolish men to part with their money or evading the North Pacific Railroad Company, Billy forgets he had ever walked this path without Goodnight at his side. 

Goodnight prefers to sleep by the fire than the comfort of an inn, soothing himself with tending to it, sleeping in shifts--first Billy then Goody, until the sun rises and they ride again. Goody seems to enjoy sleeping on with a hard rock under his head or on the cold ground; it’s as if the man had never left the war, and he was still waiting for enemy fire, the comfort of soft mattress and warm blankets disorienting. 

But it wasn’t Billy’s place to comment on that, to tell him what demons were still haunting him. Just keeping him alive is all Billy worries himself with. 

Billy holds his hands over the fire--it’s still late summer, but the air still runs cold at this time of night. Billy glances at Goodnight, staring into the fire, lost to the dance of the flames--they frame his face well, haloing around his head, reflecting the moniker he used to be known as-- _angel of death_. Goodnight had the face of a handsome man, worn with age and fatigued, but distinguished--a neatly trimmed beard that highlighted his angular planes of his face, his sharp jaw. He dressed in fine clothes, a neat jacket and vest, like he came from money, but he didn’t act like the spoiled rich boys Billy had known. His hands are calloused with thick working man’s knuckles, worn with lines, tough to touch.

Goody will glance up around him, head popping up, sudden and strange, looking past Billy, glancing behind him--reacting not to animals rustling in the bushes or coyotes in the distance, but mere silence.

“What is it, Goody?” he asks.

Goodnight ignores him, but Billy notices the tension in his shoulders, how unsettled he becomes, eyes wide, owlish as a pallor grows in his face that has nothing to do with the cold. 

“Billy, do you hear that?” he asks. 

“It’s just the coyotes, Goody--no one is following us,” he reminds him, keeps his voice as low and gentle as he can--doesn’t want Goodnight to feel shamed; it’s not the first time he’s heard sounds that weren’t there. “I’ll check if you’d like.” 

Goodnight shakes his head. “Sometimes it’s just too quiet.” He grabs his flask. “Would you like some?” Goody asks him, holding it out to him.

“Sure,” Billy says, taking it. “I’ll have some of your vile liquid” 

Goody barks a laugh. “Pshaw! You just don’t know good liquor.”

“No, Goody, you Americans don’t understand good liquor.” 

“Well, perhaps one day you’ll show me what it is that Koreans drink to get piss-shit drunk.”

Billy can’t help but grin. “Our liquor is too strong for you. Wouldn’t want to lose you.”

“Getting sentimental?”

“I like the pay,” Billy says without missing a beat. “I’m not eager to lose it. I’m supposed to keep you alive, remember?”

Goodnight’s mouth splits into a wide grin, slow at first, licking his lips, until both of them are laughing, Billy nearly choking on Goody’s precious whiskey.

Billy sleeps first that night, under the watchful eyes of Goodnight.

_Maybe someday, you’ll show me your homeland, cher...wouldn’t that be something..._

He think he hears Goody whisper to himself, or to his resting form, but Billy can’t make out all the words, can’t be sure it’s not merely his dreams beginning to run wild, and falls to a blissful sleep, Goodnight’s worn rugged face in his dreams like a fever beginning to take hold. 

***

Goodnight is still a crackshot. 

In the vast open plains of Kansas, he sets up targets out of straw and hay. Every now and then, he’ll take a day to practice, all day long. A waste of ammo, a waste of money, Billy tells him, but Goodnight insists. 

_It’s important to stay sharp_ , he says. 

_This is why I use knives_ , Billy replies. _The ammo never ends._

The sound of the shot rings out for miles, almost deafening Billy each time he hears it. He needs to take a step back and keep his distance, wait until Goodnight is satisfied with firing his weapon, but he stands by regardless. Goodnight kneels behind some hay barrels, taking cover as he shoots the imaginary enemies he sometimes still hears at night. 

Imaginary union soldiers, perhaps, but who is he to assume what haunts Goody’s nightmares?

Sometimes, Billy isn’t sure this partnership is a good idea, working together with a former confederate. It’s not something either of like to bring up much, letting it lie between them both, letting it stay in the past for peace’s sake, but it hangs over both their heads, especially when he sees how skilled Goody is with a gun; especially moments like this, Goody regimented and quick, becoming one with his weapon, part of the machinery. 

“Angel of death--that is correct?” Billy asks, arms folded as he watches. 

Goodnight’s shoulders go still, tensing up--Billy watches the tension spread to his arms, his neck, ruining his whole form. 

These days, Goodnight prefers to let Billy do the shooting--or stabbing--for him. 

“That’s what they called me,” he says, voice deceptively amicable, soft enough that Billy can only just hear him--but he misses the next shot, and the one after that, and the one after that, until he is left crouching with a rifle in hand, all the wasted ammo on the ground, his hands trembling until he loosens his hold on his weapon.

Billy should have kept quiet. He moves towards Goody, ready to say something, some kind of apology, but Goodnight throws his rifle down with a sudden fierceness, and walks away, leaving Billy behind.

 _I’m sorry_ , Billy tells him later, not fully understanding, but understanding just enough to know better. Goodnight says nothing back to him, staring down at the ground with shame ruddying his cheeks, his teeth clenched around everything unsaid. 

 

***

 

The first time they kiss, Billy is covered in blood. 

He cleans his hairpin, pulling it out of the body, out of the man who attacked Goodnight, leaving him a dead heap on the ground. Billy pulls his hair back in a bun but the strands stick to his hands, to his temples, palms wet and covered in red; he needs some kind of bath--to wash away the evidence, at the very least. 

The fight went as clean as it could have gone, but there is never such a thing as a clean fight--someone always gets stained and tainted, the stink of the kill lingering on his skin, his clothes, marring his soul. 

It had been self-defense, the man coming at Goodnight with his gun drawn, angry about being swindled by a _”a pansy coward and his filthy pet chinaman_ ”. Billy struck with a swiftness he never felt before, his body moving and his mind catching up, acting before a shot rang out, before he put his hands on Goodnight--but he knew people wouldn’t believe that. Perhaps they were even right to. Now there’s a body in the back alley behind a brothel and down the street from their inn for the night, and all Billy can hope is they get away from this town before they are discovered.

“I think that went well,” Billy says, his tone light, but Goodnight isn’t joking. He stares at Billy, then at the body, at his rifle, still clutched in his hands. It never went off, never fired ( _couldn’t get a clear shot, Goody would tell him later, and Billy will accept it, not push for another answer_ ). 

“Are you alright, Goody?” he says, reaching out, touching his shoulder, placing a hand on his shoulder, directing Goody’s eyes to him. 

They should leave, now. A korean man with a white man’s body at his feet is not a good sign for anyone, even with Goodnight as his shield, there’s only so much of the white man’s prejudice he could evade if they went on like this.

Goodnight pushes him, hand heavy on his chest, shoving him against the wall--

\--not shoving him away, fingers gripped in the cloth of his shirt, Goodnight closing the distance between them, pressing close, bodies aligned, his hands reaching up to cup Billy’s face. “Billy,” Goodnight gasps out, his voice ragged and frayed at the edges, like he’d forgotten how to speak. Goodnight’s eyes are wild and wide, a sudden frenzy possessing them, his nails clawing at Billy’s face, fingers pressing into his cheekbones.

“I’m alright,” Billy reassures him. Goodnight reaches up to stroke the skin above his eyebrow and his fingertips come away stained with blood. Billy hadn’t noticed the blood splatter. 

“It’s not my blood,” he tells Goodnight.

Goodnight nods, but he doesn’t let go of him, instead presses forward until their lips mash together, harsh in his desperation, hands on Billy’s face holding him still--Billy fights into his hold, arching forward to meet Goody mouth for mouth.

Goodnight tastes of whiskey and gunpowder, hot and almost sweet. He burns against his mouth and burns going down his throat, like proper whiskey. Billy finds himself hungry and yearning, as if the last few months of travel together have burst open inside him. He tangles his fingers in Goody’s hair, tugs him close to him, their noses bumping, pushing and pulling each other around, and Billy damn near forgets the corpse on the ground next to them, his urgency to leave slipping away as his thoughts clouds with thoughts about Goody and his lips and his hands.

“Where did you come from?” Goodnight breathes into Billy’s mouth. “How did you come to me?” His hands run down the planes of Billy’s chest, on his ribcage, searching, roving all over him and Billy shudders when they brush against his nipples--still clothed, but Goodnight is already taking his vest off, unbuttoning his shirt to feel for his bare skin. He gasps, feeling the cold air and Goodnight’s warm hands all at once. His cock hardens and throbs in his trousers. 

“Stepped off the boat in San Francisco,” Billy manages to answer, and Goodnight chuckles against his mouth, rumbling down his throat, shuddering throughout his body. Goodnight’s hand reach for his cock, feeling him through his trousers at first, but just that touch is enough to make Billy groan, thrust his hips into his grip. 

“Goody, we can’t, there’s a _body_ ,” he reminds him--not pushing him away but reaching for his face, cupping his chin, meeting his eyes. “We can’t do this here, it’s too open.”

Goodnight smiles at him, his eyes dark and burning as they look into him, heated with an intensity Billy hasn’t seen before. He presses their foreheads together, nose to nose. “ _Cher_ , you’re my fallen angel, you’re--you’re the real angel of death.” 

It’s Billy’s turn to laugh. “You’re drunk, Billy.” He admonishes. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Perhaps too drunk, but he isn’t prepared for what happens next. 

Goodnight sinks to his knees, with far more grace than a drunk man should have, rubbing Billy’s cock through his the cloth of his trousers the whole time.

“What are you doing?” Billy gasps, but he knows damn well what he’s doing.

Goodnight undos his trousers then, and doesn’t quite pull them off Billy, but lowers them enough to pull Billy’s cock out, pulling back the foreskin and running his fingers over the hard, leaking head, Billy shivering in response. Billy doesn’t stop him--he should, he shouldn’t allow this, out here, middle of the night, the prostitutes and their customers next door still working, the corpse cooling just a few yards away, but he doesn’t want him to stop, not now.

“I wish to reward you,” Goodnight says, glancing up. His voice is low and hot, like molten lava, “For your valor.” 

He takes his cock into his mouth then, slow at first, _savoring it_ , taking his time to slide his tongue over Billy’s skin, Goody’s lips wrapping around the tip of his cock. Billy’s head hits the back of the wall behind him, closing his eyes as a moan escapes his mouth. It was almost too much to look at, the sight of Goody on his knees before him, almost too much to feel, the warm wetness of Goodnight’s tongue not something he ever expected. His hands find Goodnight’s hair, tangling his fingers in the short strands, his fingernails scratching at Goody’s scalp almost too rough as he scrambles for purchase. 

Goody makes a soft choking noise and Billy opens his eyes again, to find Goodnight taking his cock deeper into his mouth, until his nose was pressed against the dark thatch of hair there, moaning around Billy. 

“God damn you, Goody,” Billy groans, any other words he wanted to say dying on his tongue with a low whine. Billy couldn’t deny the sight of Goodnight on his knees for him wasn’t a heady rush, didn’t make his cock throb and pulse, felt as if the warmth of Goodnight’s mouth was traveling up his spine and all over his body.

Goodnight draws back then, pausing at the head his cock, before sliding his tongue and mouth down over him again, teasing as the corners of Goody’s mouth curl. Billy begins to pump his hips into his hot mouth, reaching down with his other hand to cup Goody’s chin, to feel his cock press against the side of Goody’s cheek. 

Goodnight looks up at him--hard to read his expression but the sight of his cock in his mouth, eyes hot and _filthy_ to look at is enough to undo Billy, coming in a sudden burst down Goodnight’s throat, moaning his name as his release hits him hard. Goodnight lets him, continues to suck until Billy’s finished with his erratic thrusts, until he slows down and goes soft in his mouth, swallowing Billy’s release with relish. 

“You’re good at that,” Billy says after, panting, at a loss for other words. His mind is blank for once. He does his trousers up, tucking himself back in.

Goodnight stands up, swaying a bit on his feet, wiping his mouth, his chin clean. He didn’t spit, Billy realizes, a bit of knowledge that sent hot flashes of heat through him. “I’ve been around,” he says, as if that tells Billy anything. He’s panting too, and Billy can see his own arousal tented in his clothes. 

Billy nods in agreement, as if to say _me too_ , but those were stories for another time. 

Goody grins sly and crooked at Billy instead, somehow managing to look wolfish. “How lucky we are to have found each other.”

“Yes,” Billy whispers, glancing down, then back up at his eyes. “Let’s get out of here, Goody,” he reminds him again. “Let’s leave this place.”

(they ride off, far away from civilization, away from any town, until Billy’s sure there’s not a soul for miles; they don’t say anything to each other, just breathe and moan and whine into each other’s mouths, as their hands find the other’s cock, stone cold sober this time, shaking and shuddering in each other’s arms until well spent)

 

***

 

Some night are worse than others. Goodnight’s demons haunt him all the time, and no amount of cigars or whiskey can dull them.

“They’re here, they’re here,” Goodnight cries out, lurching forward and out of bed in a panic. He moves far too fast, stumbling, falling to the ground. Billy reaches out to him and catches him before he falls, holding onto him by the shoulders.

“Goodnight, listen to me,” he tells him, “listen to my voice.”

“They follow me everywhere,” he shouts in a panic, still trapped in his nightmares. “God forgive me, I deserve it. I don’t deserve a second’s peace.”

Perhaps he’s right--there’s a reason Billy doesn’t ask about the war, not sure if he wants to know all the details of Goodnight’s sins--but Billy won’t bring that up, not now. 

“They’re _gone_ , Goody,” he reminds him. “No one is here anymore, not the union soldiers, not the other confederates. That’s the past. It’s just you and me.”

He runs his hand over his cheeks, trying to draw Goody back to him. His skin is warm and wet. In the dark, he can’t see his face well, but it seems to help, Goody’s shoulders relaxing, the panic dissipating. 

“I’m wounded, Billy,” he says, the fight leaving his body. “Wounded and a coward.” In the dark, he looks like an old man. Fragile and soft skinned, even though Billy knew his hide was as tough and hard as leather.

“No, you’re alright,” Billy continues to reassure him. “I’m with you, Goody.”

But Goodnight shakes his head, burying his head against Billy’s chest, shaking like a leaf. 

They don’t speak of it in the morning, Goodnight carrying on as if nothing had happened, flask in hand and smile on his face, ready to ride off into the next day. Billy won’t make him, he wouldn’t put him through that.

He’s simply not sure when he became more than a hired hand to keep Goodnight safe.

 

***

Billy helps him shave, one morning, the two of them up at the crack of dawn--they slept outside that night, making do for warmth in a tent with their bodies, pressed up tight against each other, naked to their skins, a blanket thrown over their intertwined bodies. 

“I don’t _need_ your help,” Goodnight says with bite in his voice, holding the straight razor in his own hand. And it’s true, he doesn’t, most days. He’s perfectly capable shaving all on his own. But sometimes, it’s not a good day and his hands tremble enough to make Billy worry, eyeing the edge of the blade and the slope of Goodnight’s throat. 

“You’re bleeding, Goody,” Billy says, quite plain--a spot of blood runs down his cheek. Billy reaches out to wipe the blood away. It’s warm on his hand, and Goody’s skin warmer still. 

He doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but he brings Goody’s blood to his lips, tongue darting out to clean his finger. It’s a droplet, a taste--like copper coins, the same taste he’s had in his mouth so many times before, nothing more, but Goodnight stares at him with an open, raw look in his eyes, as if he’s done something inproper, or far worse--his eyes far too intense for this early in the day.

“Let me help,” Billy says. “Don’t fight me.”

“You ordering me around now?” Goodnight scoffs.

“Yes,” Billy says without hesitation--Goodnight quiets, sudden, and gives up his protest. 

He lets Billy take the razor from him and holds still for him, as Billy draws the straight razor to his cheek, running the blade down, again and again, over his jawline. He holds the blade to his throat, letting it linger, before carefully shaving the growing thick stubble there. Goodnight inhales, breathing in a sharp breath. 

“Trust me,” Billy tells him.

Goody’s mouth twists like he’s going to argue, but he relaxes his body, baring his throat to Billy for easier access. “I do,” he says. “I do, Billy.”

It’s easy, after that, Goodnight’s throat and body yielding to him as he shapes Goodnight’s beard the way he likes it. 

“There,” he says when he’s finished. He runs a hand down Goodnight’s newly smooth skin, softer than his calloused hands or leathery wrinkles. He left only just enough hair on his face to make him look presentable--or dangerous, the way he wants to appear, just this side of rough and ragged around the edges. “It suits you.” It’s only then he notices the bulge in Goodnight’s trousers, the heavy fall of Goodnight’s chest, the quick breathing. 

For a moment, he allows himself to imagine it, pressing the razor harder against Goodnight’s throat to see if he’d protest, push him away, or ask for more. 

His own insides swim with a hot flash of warmth. It’s an impulse, a bold one, knowing he may be pushing the line far too much, but he places the blade back at Goodnight’s throat, holding it there, like he may cut his skin. Goodnight doesn’t protest, eyeing Billy with hooded eyes. Billy waits for a comment, a _stop_ or a _no_ or even a _what in God’s name, Billy_? But it doesn’t come. He holds the razor blade there as he leans in, closing the distance, planting a soft kiss to Goody’s lips. 

Goodnight shuts his eyes and lets out a small, soft sigh.

 

***

 

They forgo trains and wagons--it’d make their journeys faster, but Goodnight is attached to Rocky, the grey aging horse he walks as much as he rides, and he’s never liked being at anyone’s mercy or timetable. Billy doesn’t mind--it gets cold at night, when they can’t find a saloon or anyone to take them in for the night, but he enjoys the solitude, when the world narrows down to him and Goodnight, a welcome respite from the world, if only for a short while.

It’s peaceful, watching the new country beneath his feet. Far less people bother him now that he has Goodnight, acting as his own sort of deterrent. He could examine that, hold some resentment against Goody for it, but it wasn’t worth it

In Bryce Canyon, Utah, Billy practices throwing his knives. He sets up several hay barrels, stacked up on top of each other--not the ideal form of practice, but it’ll do for now. He has his gun beside him, thinking of switching weapons, but he enjoys the feel of the knife, heavy in his hand, molded to his body. 

Goodnight watches him, his gaze burning as he stands next to him. He takes a long swing of his flask. Goody never seems to run out of whiskey. Billy finds it distracting, watching how his throat works as he drinks. 

“You may want to clear some space,” he tells him, flexing his shoulders.

Goodnight’s mouth curves. “You’re Michelangelo with those knives. I’m sure you won’t cut me, unless you mean to do so.” 

Billy pauses, rolling those words over in his mouth. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.” 

“It’s the truth. I’ve never seen such elegance in death. And I’ve seen quite a fair bit of death.” 

Goodnight had the ability to romanticize everything, turn even the bloodiest of murders into poetry, weave the worst of days into a story for another time, full of adventures. 

“Perhaps,” Billy says, hem and hawing a bit. He was not a modest man--he knew his skill, he knew his value, and he knew exactly how much he deserved to be paid--but sometimes the way Goody talked made his skin itch, in ways he wasn’t entirely used to. Something heavier under that admiration.

“This ever bother you?” Goodnight asks, taking another sip, watching as Billy flings a knife dead center in the target, square in the middle of the top hay barrel. “What we do? Our lives?”

“Does it bother you?” Billy says. Another knife throw. He glances at Goody and he is transfixed. “I for one enjoy conning and tricking gambling white men out of their money.”

Goodnight barks out a laugh, his grin turning sharp. “Yes, I suppose you would.” 

Billy takes a breath, a slow measured one. He watches Goodnight with a close eye, a new target, removing his hairpin, feeling his hair fall over his forehead, around his shoulders. He throws his hairpin into the hay, top barrel, where the eyes would be--hits it perfectly, aimed right where he wanted, while keeping his eyes on Goody, watching a red flush creep into his skin, his breathing turning heavy.

Goodnight lets out a joyous, loud whoop, laughing. “You’re a goddamn wonder.” 

Billy shakes his head, going over to retrieve his weapons from the hay. “It’s easy to hit a still target. Men, though, they fight back. They evade. They breathe. You must take into account every factor. Surprise is key.” 

“I’ve been to war, Billy, I know--”

“Do you like watching me?” Billy asks, cutting through Goodnight’s words, reaching up to put his hair back in order.

Goodnight licks his lips, cocks his head as Billy steps closer to him, until he’s a mere foot away from him. 

“Yes,” he says, already knowing what Billy means. “I do.” 

Billy nods, the side of his mouth curving up in a half smile. 

“C’mon, Goody,” he says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s head back to town.” 

***

On the outskirts of Bryce Canyon, they make off with several hundred dollars, split evenly between them, won over another gunslinging contest; all in a day’s work. Goody decides to celebrate.

“I’ve never been much for marrying,” Goodnight rambles, drunk on coin and success and expensive bourbon--ordered the house finest from the local saloon bartender, bringing it back in two pint glasses to share among them both. He hasn’t stopped talking since they counted their money, his tongue loose and his words spilling. “Never could stomach the idea of settling with a wife and children, not after the war.” 

“No women were to your tastes?” Billy asks. In his hands, he shuffled a deck of cards, mainly to keep himself busy, his hands itching to do something more.

“My father always said I was too picky, unpleasable, turning away all sorts of women in town, but well...” He trails off and winks at Billy. It’s a ridiculous sight to his alcohol-addled brain and he bursts out laughing.

“Well, I don’t think I’ve heard you laugh quite like that before,” Goodnight says, cackling with him, pounding his fist on the table.

Billy catches himself when he notices a glare from the group of men at the next table over. There’s a reason he tries hard not to draw attention to himself.

“We should get going,” Billy says, lowering his voice, glancing around them. He could feel the alcohol begin to take hold, numbing his senses, loosening his body and muscles. Not entirely unpleasant but the loss of control was always a risk, looking over his shoulder. “Head back to our rooms. I don’t like the look of this place.”

Or rather he didn’t like how it looked at him, the white folk always eyeing him and Goodnight. 

“Don’t fret, Billy,” Goodnight says, leaning in close, his voice dipping low. “I’ll protect you from any white man, you’ll protect me from my own drunken whims, wouldn’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Billy says, pulling in closer than he should in public, mouth against Goodnight’s ear. “I want to indulge in my own drunken whims in the privacy of our rooms.”

Goodnight shudders, falling silent for once, before nodding his head in agreement. 

 

***

 

“You like watching me use this knife on other people, Goody?”

Billy has Goodnight spread out on the bed of his room, straddling his waist, sitting above him. Billy has abandoned his own room for the night, and he is feeling bold, reckless even. 

Goodnight is confused, eyebrows knitted, but he’s willing, letting Billy hold him and press him to the soft mattress, giving up control to him “Yes,” he answers in a harsh whisper, rough and honeyed.

Billy draws his hair pin out slow, letting his hair fall down, brushing his shoulders-- _I love your hair_ , Goody groaned into his throat once, running his fingers through the strands, _like black silk_.

“How about this? How about on _you_?”

He could use a real knife but something about the sharp, delicate hairpin makes Goody suck in a breath. He draws the point of the hairpin to Goody’s throat, where he shaved him just a few days earlier.

Goodnight’s hair is all amuck, breathing hard under him. Billy can feel his cock stir, a point of heat between his legs, connecting with Goodnight’s groin. 

“Is this what you want?” Billy asks, the elegant hairpin at Goody’s throat. Billy pushes it further in, not enough to draw blood but enough to leave a mark, enough to indent Goodnight’s skin, reddening the pale flesh. “Is this that you want, Goody?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Goodnight moans, throwing his head back, arching into the sharp edge of Billy’s blade. “God help me.” 

“No,” Billy says, shuddering, biting his lip. His own cock throbs in his trousers, growing heavy and warm between his legs, aching for the sight of Goodnight stretched before him like an offering, a sacrifice of blood and flesh--Goody’s life his for the taking. “Just me, Goody.”

He grabs a knife instead, resting beside him, switching out his weapons, and uses it to cut off Goodnight’s shirt, a straight line down the middle, buttons popping off and flying.

“Goddammit, Billy, I don’t have that many shirts--”

Billy once again presses the blade to his throat. “Do you want this or not?”

Goodnight falls silent and there’s something intoxicating in the way he obeys with immediacy, with just a push of Billy’s weapon. 

His chest is exposed now--satisfied, Billy drops the knife and grabs his hairpin again--it’s not his best weapon, his knives are sharper, made for death while this he is _good_ with, but he loves the feel of it in his hand, loves the sight of it against Goody’s skin.

Carefully, he draws the sharp point across his chest, above his nipple. Goodnight hisses in, teeth bared as blood wells from the cut, dark red blooming across his chest, but still, he does not tell Billy to stop. He doesn’t even ask what he’s doing.

Billy leans down, drawing his tongue across the red line of blood, his skin hot and blood hotter. It’s just a brief taste, but Goody moans out his name, a note of surprise in his voice. 

Billy wants to cut him again, but he settles for holding the blade to his collarbone, digging the point in as a warning while kissing his chest, licking across the heated skin, until Billy finds his nipple. Some of the blood has dripped here and he can’t resist sucking it into his mouth, Goody’s blood coating his tongue as he licks and bites down--he’s never cared for the taste of blood, but it’s different like this, when he can drive Goodnight to madness with just with his mouth and his blades.

“ _Billy_ ,” Goodnight cries out, bucking his hips up against him; Billy feels his cock twitch under him. 

He draws another cut, under his left nipple this time, eager for all of Goodnight’s sounds of pleasure, for the way his body moves under him, for him and only him. Billy kisses his way down Goody’s body, down his chest, to his stomach, keeping the blade on him, stroking his skin with it. Goodnight pants, heavy heaves of his chest ripple under Billy as he reaches out to Billy to stroke the hair back from his face, out of his eyes, his palm cupping around the curve of Billy’s cheek. 

“You’re beautiful,” Goodnight breathes out, exhaling as he arches up into him. 

Billy was not one to blush but it came anyway, cheeks turning hot, even as his body grew hotter still. 

He continues his trek down Goody’s body, until he reaches his cock--and finally, Billy loses his grip on his hairpin, feeling it slide from his palm as he nuzzles at Goodnight’s clothed cock, pulling it out to wrap his lips around him, the taste of him thick and musky on his tongue. He loses himself in act of licking and sucking, running his tongue around the length of him, sliding his foreskin down, his world narrowing down to Goodnight’s hands and voice, to his skin and cock filling his throat.

“My god, Billy,” Goodnight moans, before he loses all words, chanting his lord’s name and Billy’s name in the same breath as if they were one in the same. 

***

This is when Billy realizes it.

The dim light of the saloon is casting shadows over Goodnight’s face, casting him half in light and half darkness. He is laughing, smile crinkling all the way up to his eyes, his flask in hand, tipped over to Billy. Billy takes the flask from him, having a drink, whiskey burning down his throat before returning it back to Goody. Behind them, women laugh and men chatter, and it all felt so distant, falling away as he meets Goodnight’s eyes and traded smiles with him.

The world fades away behind them, behind the card games and saloon owner yelling at patrons, barkeeper pouring beer.

Goodnight grins at him, teeth shining in the darkness, and Billy thinks he could live like this until his dying day. 

***

Goody left a candle burning in his room. Billy extinguishes with his fingers. The room goes dark.

“Light it again,” he hears Goody whisper, voice barely heard in the dark room. He rolls back around. He seems older than ever, lines on his face stark and weary, something vulnerable and soft around him like this. Handsome, still, in his own right.

“You’ll set the room on fire,” he tells him, voice gentle, stepping closer.

Billy strips off his clothes, methodical--first his vest, then his suspenders. His shirt, and shoes, then trousers, until he’s finally bare. Goodnight gasps, startled, awe flooding his exhale. 

Billy should comment on it. _This shock you, Goody? Surprise you? You’ve seen me nude before._ But it was no longer funny, not to him. 

“There are other ways to stay warm,” Billy tells him, as he crawls into bed with him--it’s a small bed, narrow and slim, built for one, but he wraps an arm around Goodnight, tucking himself against his back, resting his chin on his shoulder. Billy grabs the blanket then, and covers them both.

Goody sighs, softening, and already, Billy can feel him drifting off back to sleep against him.

“Hey there, Goody,” Billy whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against the nape of his neck, feeling the edge of Goody’s hairline across is lips, breathing in the scent of him, dusty from the road. Goody finds his hand with his own before they fall under the sway of sleep, intertwining their fingers together.


End file.
